She leaned to one o’clock At the apex of the silver ladder, And painted grey with the small brush Along the antique green. It rained and unrained, fat and soft, But dry under the awning, In black overalls and white smock, Her wife trim and black-clad herself, They licked neat paint Like washing cats In firm and steady rows — Upon the lead lights And glazing bars, The architraves and lean mullions — To cover and revive the little grace And lucid lines of that flower shop.
Concert
